


What Would Happen (If We Kissed)

by nomercles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asexuality, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Dean-Centric, Demisexual Character, Episode Related, Feels, M/M, Mostly Gen, Multi, Seasons 1-5, Teenchesters, UST, Weechesters, What Could Have Been, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7999642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomercles/pseuds/nomercles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean, between the lines.  Kisses they wanted, and some that they got.  A love letter.</p><p>All chapters can be read independently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Out for a Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean loved movies.

The first time Dean wanted to kiss someone-really kiss, like you see at the end of the movies-he was 11.

He was just experimenting, really.  It looked nice. The hero wrapped one arm around the girl, looked into her eyes, yanked her against him, and just laid one on her. The camera panned out, showing a city lit by a sunset, and he understood what a hero who _didn’t_ hunt monsters looked like. He really, really wanted to be a hero.

When they were wrestling in another motel room on a rainy, gray day, he jokingly tried it with Sammy. Sammy knew exactly what to do. They watched the same movies after all, and usually together. He looked up with wide eyes, fluttered his eyelashes, and simpered, “Oh, my hero!”

Dean obligingly dipped his little brother…and then dropped him. He was strong for a kid, but he was still only 11. Sammy landed with an “oof” and a giggle, and Dean dropped down to check on him, and in the process gave him a smacking kiss.

It was better than the movies.


	2. Before the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Good night, love."

Mary hefted Dean up into her arms to take him into the nursery. He was getting heavy now, and she wouldn't be able to do this much longer. She buried her nose in his curls and breathed deep of that special wild little boy smell, savoring the moment. She set him down in front of Sammy's crib and he dutifully hopped up on the little step and bent down to kiss his brother on the forehead. Sam gurgled at Dean, waving tiny fists and kicking blanket-covered feet. 

It was their family tradition. As soon as Sam came home from the hospital, Dean had badgered John into building him a short stool he could stand on, because he was going to tuck Sammy in too, just like them. Sammy was his little brother, and he wanted him to know his big brother was going to chase the monsters away for him. So every night, while John was downstairs closing up the house and turning off the lights, Mary was walking Dean through brushing his teeth and getting on his pajamas, and just as John came up the stairs, Dean was climbing down off his stool, having kissed his brother goodnight. 

Mary bent down over Sam and pressed her lips right between his eyes, and her little boy cooed and smiled. She smiled back and rubbed her nose against his. She loved this time of day, when the house was quiet, and everyone was warm and happy and safe, and they could all just be together before sleeping.


	3. At the Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean didn't even know the girl. He was sorry she was gone, but he was here for Sam.

The first time Dean figured out that he wanted to kiss his brother was the day of Jess's funeral. Sam managed to get through the entire thing--seeing Jess' relatives, answering all the same questions, offering numb condolences--all without losing his temper or breaking down. Dean just stood by him, a silent bulwark ready to shield, not minding that he didn't know who anyone was. This was for Sam; he didn't need to know.

Sam held up really well at this normal civilian funeral that was so foreign to Dean, and it just made him more aware that Sam had grown up past him. He figured he'd stick around as long as Sam wanted, but he was itchy and claustrophobic with all the lilies in the air and the soft sympathetic voices.

Sam was a tough guy, he knew that, so after the service, when even Sam was starting to show well-controlled tension in his eyes and voice, Dean hustled him out of there to a dark and anonymous bar, a bottle of bourbon on the scarred table between them. They stayed there until Sam's shoulders crumpled in and started to shake.

Dean got him back to the motel and into bed and it took all of about 5 minutes for Sam to pass out from exhaustion. Dean sat with him the entire time. 

A couple hours later, after he'd gone to sleep himself, he felt the bed shift behind him. Sam was muttering that he couldn't sleep alone. He rolled over to look at Sam, and Sam leaned down and kissed him. He mumbled "Night, Jess", and Dean laid there awake for a long time, tasting salt and feeling broken inside. 

For one ugly moment, he'd been jealous of a dead woman.


	4. Close the Door, Lock it Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets a boy named Lucas.

Sometimes Dean hates himself.  He doesn't talk about it.   _You're not supposed to talk about it._   He's got this great life--freedom to go anywhere, he gets to be a hero every day.  He's a real-life Fast Eddy Felsen, with all the girls he could ever want.  Just give them an appreciative smile and lift an eyebrow, and they come to him.  He doesn't even have to do anything.  Sure, sometimes a girl plays a little hard to get, makes him work for it.  But even that's just buying her a drink, telling her a story, and being a little bit more charming than usual.  Women are easy.  He gets women like he gets guns, like he gets how to coax just a little more speed out of the car on a curve. Girls might be the easiest thing he deals with.

But here's the secret about Dean.  This is the thing he's ashamed of.  Girls are hard.  They want his face and his body, but they don't want _him_ , and the thing is, he doesn't actually want them, either.  You're supposed to like girls, you're supposed to want to sink yourself into soft and wet and wrap your hand in long, silky hair.  There's rules for guys like him, and the number one rule is that _you like girls_.  You like as many girls as you can get, at all times.  You never _don't_ want a woman.  But he...doesn't.  Sure, it's an okay way to pass the time. It's better than running from a pissed off spirit, anyway.

The truth is, Dean doesn't actually want anyone that way.  Not so far.  Not since his brother left.  He's just kind of numb to it all.  Going through the motions.  He knew if he didn't, his dad would start asking questions.  Even if he could leave Sam out of it, his dad would think there was something wrong with him, that he wasn't a red-blooded American male.  There's rules, and if you don't follow those rules, everyone starts asking you questions or looking at you funny.  If the number one rule is that you like girls, the number two rule is that you don't stand out by liking something different.  People notice when you stand out.   _Hunters_ notice when you stand out, and you cannot afford that.

Dean's honestly never wanted anyone.  He doesn't know why, or what's wrong with him.  He likes getting off just as much as the next guy, and porn is nice.  But other people, sex with other people-- _no, gotta get it right, it's sex with_ girls _, don't say people_ \--is a hassle and he'd just as soon skip it.  Sam's different, though.  Sam's not really a person, Sam's bigger than that.  Sam's just _Sam_.  Not wanting Sam would be like not wanting his hand when the mood is right.  He doesn't even feel guilty about it.  It was always just there, for both of them, since about the time he knew what sex was and that Sam wanted to do it with him.  Okay, he felt a little guilty that Sam had been so damned young, but it's not like he was much older.  He just knew that was another thing you don't talk about, because then people start wanting to hunt you like a monster.

And now Sam's back.  Dean still wants him, but it doesn't look like Sam feels the same anymore.  It hurts a little. _It hurts a lot._   He doesn't say it.  He'd never make Sam do something he didn't want to do; he never wanted to hurt Sam.  His job was to protect his baby brother.  So he shoved it down deep, where he kept all the dark things, all the secret things, the things no one got to know but him, and sometimes he didn't want to know them either.  He shoved it deep and he slapped on another layer of charm, and when the waitress with the low-cut pink top made the obvious offer, he knew what to do.  He gave a little bit dirty smile around the pen in his mouth and he made it clear he was interested.

If no one knew that he was just as glad Sam came back before anything else could happen, well, that was just fine, too.

\----

Andrea was interesting.  He would have pegged her for a quiet librarian type, but she had a mouth on her.  Really, he hadn't been trying to pick her up.  Well, okay, he had, but it had been reflexive.  Sam's there, Dean's supposed to be a randy son of a bitch, gotta keep up appearances, right?  He didn't really want her, even if it stung to have her shoot him down like that.  And then she just _kept_ thinking it. Talk about awkward.

Lucas is this fascinating kid.  Looks at you like he can see everything you've ever done.  What's that myth, with the feather?  Anubis? Lucas was like a real-life Anubis.  But weirdly, Dean didn't really feel judged.  He just felt understood.

He liked that kid.  He really did.  It wasn't a "Jerry Maguire" thing (and thanks for that, Sam), it was just a this kid is cool thing.  He got that kid.  He might not have had a mom like Andrea backing him up, but Andrea was exactly the kind of mom he'd always imagined he would have had.  So, yeah, it was a little creepy that she kept thinking he was hitting on her.  He just kept his hands firmly in his pockets, he kept a foot of space between them, and he tried to let Sam talk to her as much as possible.  (Lucas was easier, anyway).

If Andrea was the mom he never got, Lucas was the sort of kid he would have liked to have had, if his life were different.  Lucas was a lot like Sammy.  Little hamster wheels spinning frantically in his brain, never missing a damned thing, and he knew that if Lucas talked, it'd be sharp questions Dean wasn't smart enough to answer.  Sam's crack about naming kids he knew kind of sucked.  Hell, he raised Sam, so there's a kid right there.  Pretty insulting to forget that one, when they're freaking standing next to each other.  And shit, every time he was on a case with Dad, he got sent to talk with the children.  Kids really liked Dean.  Sam would probably say something like that was because he was the same mental age, but whatever.  Kids saw things no one else did, and no one paid attention to them, so they were useful.  Some of that was buried under shit about unicorns that crap rainbows and pretending to be a bee, but he didn't even count that out.  Not after that mutant bee thing in Kentucky.

Dean liked kids right back.  He didn't think he'd make a very good father, and his life wasn't exactly suitable for children, but on dark nights when it was just him and the car, he sometimes thought about it.  Find some girl who liked his company, have a baby together. Share a house.  That part sounded weird, but if Dad could do it, then Dean could.  No sweat.  But it's hard to find a girl who's willing to have a platonic relationship who wasn't a lesbian, and lesbians all hated him for some reason.  And then there was Sam.  Yeah, Dean wanted hypothetical kids, but he wanted them with _Sam_ , and that would never work.  That wasn't even something he could ask.

So he spent his time with the scared and confused kids on cases, and he pretended to be a bee, and he imagined.  But he never said a word.

\----

They worked through the case, getting closer, and Lucas drew him pictures.  Fuck what anyone else says, that kid is _talking_.  He's just not speaking.  But he's saying everything.  He's telling Dean he's scared, that he's worried about his mom, that no one actually listens to him because he doesn't talk.  That he _wants_ to talk, and he just...can't right now.  He's not deaf, he's not _stupid_ , he's not blind.  He's just silent for a while.  People never get that, but Dean did.  That's why he told Lucas about what it had been like for him as a kid.  It was what Lucas needed to hear.  Hell, there were a lot of days where Dean didn't want to talk, either.  When he and Dad had started splitting cases and he was on the road by himself, he'd sometimes walk into a diner somewhere and order pie; the words were clumsy in his mouth and he realized that he hadn't actually spoken out loud in a week.  No one to talk to.  No one to listen.  It's another reason he came and got Sam, but he's not going to tell him that.  That's a secret thing.

Lucas going toward the water like that scared the shit out of him.  He'd lost people before, of course he had, but it always hurt.  He knew that if he lost Lucas to a _spirit_ in a fucking _lake_ , it would be one of the worst things that had ever happened to him.  Couldn't let it happen.  It wasn't about being a hero, it was about that kid.  Lucas had gotten under his skin.  Sam didn't get it, and Dean didn't know if he could make him understand, even if he did have the right words.  Sam just thought he was this callous, leather jacket wearing, whiskey guzzling bad boy who liked the ladies.  And that was fine.  That was what he wanted everyone to think.   _It sure would have been nice if Sam could see past all that.  The one person he thought knew him best left for a couple years, and then forgot everything about him._   But Lucas...Lucas didn't see him that way.  Lucas saw deeper.  Lucas was probably smarter than all of them put together.  He'd talk eventually.  But only if Dean could save him first.

Andrea was screaming behind him, and he and Sam were running.  All he could hear in his head were the seconds counting off: how long Lucas had been down, doing the math of if they can get there in time.  How deep is the lake, how deep can he dive, how fast can he run, how fast can he swim, can _Lucas_ swim.  He knew Sam was right there next to him, doing the same calculations.  Sam was the faster runner, but Dean was the better swimmer, so Lucas would have a pretty good shot--if he was just a kid panicking in the water.  With a spirit, in water, holding a child, it's not like he could shoot at it.  So _who knows_.  Ghosts are strong.  Pissed off ghosts are stronger, and he and Sam were going to do their fucking best.  They ran faster.

They dove three or four times, and thank God for good timing.  Jake walked toward the water and started talking to the ghost of Peter Sweeney, and Dean _dove_.  As fast as he could, stealing that fraction of an opportunity.  He didn't want to lose any civilians, but if it was between a bully who covered up a murder and an innocent traumatized kid, he'd go for the kid every single time.  He spotted Lucas, and he actually watched the spirit turn its head to look at Jake.  When it let go, he snatched Lucas up and shot toward the surface.  Lucas breathing was one of the best sounds he'd ever heard.  Andrea was crying, and Sam was panting next to him, but Lucas was coughing and breathing and he was going to live.

It was a good fucking day.

\----

Sure enough, as soon as Lucas started talking, the words came out like an artillery barrage.  Like the spirit of Peter Sweeney had held his throat hostage and he'd been storing up everything he'd been thinking and couldn't say.  Dean talked back, answered every question he had about monsters and hunting, and a bunch of other questions he did his best with.  When they were done, the kid was cheerily declaring that Zeppelin was the best band ever and wondering if he could get a leather jacket just like Dean's.  Andrea kissed him on the cheek to say thanks.  He saw her lean in, and he braced himself, but she just went for the cheek, and the way she smiled at him felt okay. Like she'd gotten the message, or maybe her son getting almost killed kind of threw romance out of her mind.  Whatever; it was cool.  He wasn't going to push it.

They climbed back in the car, and he saw Lucas' face break into an excited grin when he started her up.  Dean revved the engine a couple times, just to hear that goofy cackling laugh again.

Yeah, that kid was going to be fine.  They might swing back someday, check in on them, but Dean had found that if he did that, the civvies got freaked out.  They'd met him on some of the worst days of their lives, and if he strolled back through, even for a cup of coffee at the diner, they wanted to know if the problem was back.  Then they just wanted him to go away.  Normal people always wanted to forget and move on.  Dean didn't think Lucas would forget, though.  He hoped it didn't happen, but he wouldn't be surprised if he saw Lucas in a decade or so, joining the fight.  He had that kind of steel in his spine.  Takes a brave kid to trust strangers with guns, even if those strangers are trying to help.

As they pulled out--easy and calm; don't want to scare Andrea and get Lucas a lecture about not driving like him--he looked back in the rearview.  Andrea had already started back inside, but Lucas had moved to the middle of the street.  He wasn't waving or anything. Just watching them go.  Standing guard over his town and the only family he had left, taking over when his heroes rode into the sunset.

Brave fucking kid.


	5. Not the Mile High Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT how Dean wanted his first plane trip to go, damn it.

Dean would never tell Sam he was humming Metallica under his breath because he was too freaked out to relax at all. Getting off might work, but if Sam wasn't kissing him any more, he probably wasn't going to help him out with a handjob under a blanket, either. 

So when he got up to test the pretty stewardess, he muttered Christo all the way. It calmed him down, but it didn't make the awkward stiffy go away, and he had to walk down the cabin trying to hide it.

Dean blamed Sam for it. It was his fault. Obviously.


	6. Guilty Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bloody Mary tried to take Dean's eyes, too. Sam never asked why. Dean could never tell him.

Dean dreamed of smoke. Acrid breaths, searing his throat, infiltrating his lungs with greedy, grasping fingers. He kissed Sam harder to chase the flavors out.

 

They were in the Impala, in front of Sam's apartment, and Sam's girl was right upstairs, waiting for him to come home. Dean hadn't meant for this to happen--he'd pulled up under the streetlight and turned off the engine, trying for a jocular tone when he vaguely offered Sam a place back hunting with him. His voice came out strained, gruff and brittle, instead.

"You know, we made a hell of a team back there." He meant to say, _do you want to come back_ , or even _I missed you_. But Sam being here was too close, too raw, and all he wanted to do was hide. Sam had looked at him for a long, unsettling moment. Always looked like he could see straight through him. No one else ever saw him the way Sammy could. The engine ticked as it cooled, and Dean went back to staring fixedly at the emblem on the center of the steering wheel. Tried not to fidget, concentrated on keeping his hands still on his thighs.

"Dean..." It was a guttural whisper from the other side of the car, almost buried in the creak of vinyl upholstery as Sam shifted his weight. Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of little brother was thick in the closed car, almost foreign now. His throat felt hot and tight, and that spot behind his eyes ached a little, and he focused on not letting his breath out in a shudder.

"Yeah, Sam. Okay." He moved to turn the key in the engine, and Sam stopped him with a hand on his. His fingers were little points of warmth on his wrist, a little sweaty, a hesitant touch. Leaving him room to break away if he wanted.

"No, Dean. I mean..." Sam's voice stuttered to a hoarse, rattling stop. Feeling like every day he'd been alive was pressing down on him all at once, feeling decrepit and broken, Dean slowly turned his head and lifted his eyes to Sam's. Sam looked just as unsure, and that for some reason settled him more than anything else could have. The moment spun out, and Dean had a momentary, jarring visual of him and Sam in a funhouse mirror maze, endless repetitions of themselves stretching on in every direction. Like no matter what they did, they would never leave this place, this second, this breath. And then Sam _lunged_.

It had been years. It felt like it was just a few days ago. Sam kissed exactly the same. Aggressive, hard, biting kisses, the kind that felt like war but left you wanting to be a casualty. His fingers jumped from Dean's like there was an electric current there; Sam palmed Dean's neck with one of those enormous hands, and angled his jaw where he wanted it with the other. Sam's thumb settled gently into place in the hinge of Dean's jaw, opening his mouth further, and Dean answered by slicking his tongue across Sam's lower lip. Sam huffed, the edge of it a snarl, and suddenly Dean remembered this. _When you kiss Sammy, you let him lead._ It'd been like that since he was 14.

Dean leaned forward, trying to match Sam's pace, one hand coming up to scratch lightly at the nape of Sam's neck, tangling in the hairs there, and Sam honest to fuck _whimpered_. Dean felt a smug smile creep across his mouth and he slid his tongue in deep, slow, a dirty rhythm that only evoked one thing. Sam tasted a little like coffee, smelled a lot like dirt and fire, and felt like everything Dean had been denying himself for years. Sam seemed to feel the same way, because between one panting breath and the next, Dean felt himself hauled over the bench seat and onto Sam's lap. Dean let out an undignified squawk, and Sam chuckled low. Curled his hands into Dean's hips slowly. Slid his body forward, so they were pressed together more solidly. Both of them shuddered out a quiet moan.

It was a tight fit, and the last time they did this, they were both a few inches shorter, and it's not like Dean was the one on top since then. It took him a moment to figure out how to angle his body, and he knew it was going to be uncomfortable in the not-too-distant future, but Dean eagerly hunched his head forward to not bang it on the ceiling of the car. He locked eyes with Sam, both their breath slowing, both of them taking stock. Dean thought muzzily that this, right here, was worth it. Everything. This is what he'd missed, this is what he wanted. He didn't know how he was going to get Sam to stay, but he wasn't giving this up, not ever again.

They just stared at each other for a while. If it had been anyone else, maybe even any other time, it would have been awkward as hell, but now it was just necessary. This was a big moment. They both knew it. They could let it simmer for a little while. Dean couldn't really see Sam's eyes all that well; the street light slanted down over his chest and into Dean's lap, but left both their faces hidden. They could make out enough, but Dean thought the darkness was a comfort. This was meant for the dark, where it was safer.

On some unseen, unheard signal, they both leaned forward at once. Sam kept his hands quietly where they were on Dean's canted out knees, like he was saying it got to be Dean's turn again for a while. Be the big brother, be in charge, even if we're doing something not generally in the brother handbook. Dean slid his hands into Sam's hair, slowly flexing them like a cat, and he gently laid his mouth on Sam's. Nothing else. A quiet benediction, and an oath.

With soft, delicate movements, they began to explore. Dean loved this. Sam was passionate and aggressive in bed, and Dean tended toward smooth grace and easy, practiced moves. But right now, all that measured silk and wild ferocity was gone. It was just two brothers figuring each other out again. Dean opened his mouth a little under Sam's, and Sam responded with a flick of his tongue. Dean sucked Sam's lower lip into his mouth, and Sam countered with sliding one hand up his back, palm riding the groove of his spine. Dean angled his head and opened wider, and their tongues rubbed against each other. Soft, wet, warm, slipping back and forth between swollen lips. Small sounds and sighing breaths filling the car. Dean started kissing a little bit harder, pressing forward a little bit more, and just like that, they were galloping again in the same rhythm they'd always had together.

Little growls were coming from deep in Sam's chest and Dean was giving bitten-off curses as their hands grabbed and pressed and dragged against each other. Dean's fingers scrabbled against Sam's chest and he scraped a thumb over Sam's nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sam threw his head back and moaned, and Dean darted forward to set his teeth into Sam's throat. Jeans got unzipped and yanked roughly down, and once he had their cocks out, Sam's hips shoved up into his.

Dean slid his hand back up, slipping over Sam's collar and up into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he clenched his fist slowly. Sam tried to lean forward to kiss him again, but he couldn't move against Dean's grip, and the immobility made him gasp, even as his hands clenched into the give of Dean's ass. Sam urged Dean against him tighter, and Dean obliged by biting down harder. It was going to leave one hell of a mark, and the thought of Sam having to walk back into his apartment with Dean's brand on his skin gave him a dark, possessive thrill.

Dean started up a filthy cadence: he was sucking and licking at Sam's neck as he twisted his hand in Sam's hair and pinched his nipple to the same beat. Sam was moaning with these tight, short cries as they rocked their hips. Dean slip his mouth and tongue wetly up the cord of Sam's throat, and teased at the little spot under his ear that got that little helpless _Sam_ sound he loved so much.

Finally, Sam ripped his hair out of Dean's grasp and crashed his lips against Dean's, mouths open wide, tongues thrusting. Sam was shoving his hand under Dean's jacket and shirts, scraping his blunt nails against Dean's back as he grabbed Dean's thigh to drag him closer. Their hips ground harder, their zippers scratching against vulnerable skin so it hurt, but then they bumped across each other and Dean's cock slid just right between their bellies pressed so close. The kerosene in his veins caught fire and he didn't care anymore.

Heat. Brilliance. Color. Pleasure so sharp it was just on this side of pain, right where Dean liked it. He heard himself crying out and the wet heat spreading out across Sam's dick just made it that much more. Sam was going to have to walk back in there with more than just a mark on his throat. He was going to be wearing Dean's scent and the stains on his pants, and Jess would know. He rumbled a little in his chest and opened his eyes to watch Sam come.

Sam was frozen in horror, eyes wide open and lips parted as he stared up past Dean's shoulder. That was not a sex face. That was Sam bathed in orange and moving shadow, looking at something to give him scars. Dean carefully, slowly, turned his head back to see for himself. Sam didn't scare easy, and Dean couldn't protect him if he couldn't _see_ it.

He felt his heart crack open and ooze greasy pleasure. The light he'd seen from his orgasm was real, and Sam's apartment was on fire.

 

Dean jerked awake and realized the screaming he heard was his. His voice was shredded and he gasped in a few whimpering breaths as he looked over to the other side of the motel room, hoping that he hadn't woken Sam up. He felt a flash of fear when he saw Sam's bed was empty, followed by a surge of relief when he heard the shower in the bathroom. He sat up and scraped a hand over his face, nausea churning in his gut. This was not the first time he'd had that nightmare, felt such evil inside his dream self. So far, Sam hadn't caught on.

How do you tell your brother that you'd been dreaming you were fucking him in the car while his girlfriend was burning? There was no way that conversation would go anywhere but bad. It would only go worse if Dean told him he'd had it every night after Dad had disappeared. That that was how he knew to come back. You don't tell your little brother that you think you had a vision of his whole life going up in flames, and dragged him off anyway. Sam would never forgive him. Dean would never forgive himself. He was glad to have Sam back, he was. A hated, shameful part of him didn't even care that someone had died for it. And man, what would Sam say to _that_.

Dean breathed deep, crammed the turmoil back into its lockbox, and went to make coffee.


	7. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans were disgusting. But they were fun to play with.

Aino had been around a long, long time. They didn't know how long. Their memory had been overlaid so many times, by so many shapes, that they couldn't remember more than two or three identities back. And they changed a lot. It used to be slower; they'd really get established in a body, in a life. It was cozy. They were all alone, and wrapping someone else's family and home around them was comforting. But eventually, every time, they'd get too comfortable, and then there was screams and chaos and blood and  _quick find another form_. They had a vague idea that it used to be easier. TVs fucked everything up. Cell phones. Cameras. All this technology, and there was more every day--the world was choking out things like them.

And so far, Aino was the only one. Maybe the others had been choked out, too. Maybe they'd always been alone. Maybe they were an evolutionary dead end, a singular fatal computer error. They didn't like to think about it. They thought about what it might have been like to have a family of their own, and they got... _angry_. Then there was a mess on the floor and they'd have to go be someone else again. All those families, all those lives, all these people who took it all for fucking _granted_ , they'd show them. They'd all learn. Just like Aino learned. They'd learn, and then they would burn, and then Aino wouldn't be alone anymore.

Aino had brushed up against a man named Dean. Humans were all ugly to them, and this one was uglier than most. But he had such knowledge. That was a thing they liked the most about the constant traveling--they learned so many new things. They didn't remember them later, but they learned for a while. This one knew guns, mythology, machines. Family. Oh, the ache he had for family. He thought about his dad, and his mind was filled with bitter gray soot. He thought about the curvy girl walking down the street and he got streamers of deep dark purple. His brother said his name, and all Aino saw was light. Yeah, Dean was devoted to his family. He pretty much only thought about them. Them, and being a hero to all the other _vermin_. A savior. Thought he was a real cowboy.

Their lip curled. Stupid fucking humans. They all wanted to be the best, the most, the apex predator. They were all so fucking _pathetic_. They filled their lives with squabbles and petty frustration; they fought and bickered over nothing. They never made a single difference, and they always thought they had. No one ever remembered them when they were gone. Really, Aino was doing them a service. Make their lives have an _impact_. They were never forgotten again, once Aino was through with them.

Sam. Samuel. Sammy. They thought they'd start there. Leave him with a lasting impression of his brother. They saw the way they looked at each other, all hidden longing and guilt. Aino didn't really care about the backstory. Not right now. Right now, Sam was on the floor and struggling for air. It was beautiful. Sam was looking up at them, _knowing_ them. They wouldn't be forgotten this time. Of course, they weren't going to let him go, but this was one of their favorite moments, when they were inside one and touching another. They got to know everything. And these two, all they thought about was each other. Sam was doing that annoying thing they all did, where they thought about all the things they'd miss, all the things they regretted. Almost made Aino want to kill them faster, get that buzzing insectile voice out of their head.

 _Oh_. Oh, this was interesting. They did a quick riffle through Dean's memories, and...yeah, there it was. Oh, this was just delicious. Sam was thinking about his brother, and what they did in the dark. His _brother_. He felt so guilty. Aino didn't care, they just wanted to not be alone, but Sam cared, and Aino loved pain. This was a lot of pain. It felt thick and sweet, like liquid sugar, burning down their throat. This tasted so good, they almost wanted to let him live. Maybe keep him for a while, in some pretty birdcage, and they'd come out and kiss him sometimes, just to listen to him beg. Or maybe they'd go get Dean, and keep them both. Keep 'em where they could see each other, but couldn't do anything about it. That would leave a fucking _mark_.

Sam grinned up at them with bloody teeth, and they snarled back. A useless human should be _afraid_ of them, what was this one doing smiling. Maybe they'd keep him in that cage and do more than kiss him. Make his brother watch. That could be fun. Until they got bored, that is, and then there would be a different kind of fun, a bloody one.

Aino heard a shout. It was Dean, the other Dean. They scrambled up, staring at him. He had a gun, and Aino knew what that gun was going to do to them; they remembered the specs. They opened their mouth, ready to tell that other Dean all about what his precious little brother wanted to do to him, how _filthy_ they both were, even for humans. They knew they weren't going to get away, not at this distance, not with Dean's skills, not with that gun.

They had a startling moment of regret of their own. They had wanted to twist the knife a little, play with their heads before they died. Leave some kind of _scars_.

Instead they watched themselves pull the trigger.


	8. A Martyr's Matchmaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes doing the right thing sucks. And if Sam would just get on with it, it'd be a hell of a lot easier.

Oh, yeah. Sam was into her. She was into him. They were doing that thing, though. Where they were leaning toward each other and all, but neither of them were going to make a move. Dean hated it when Sam did that. It was all "I don't deserve this", and uncertain, and he was like a damned guilt-ridden puppy. It was ridiculous. Dean knew Sam had game. He'd seen it. He got Jess, didn't he? _He got me, too._ But then Sam would do this thing, and it was all self-sacrificing bullshit.

Yeah, he'd just lost Jess, Dean got that, but damn it, Sam, why don't you do something already? _Maybe you're kinda glad._ The girl is right there. He knew they'd been kissing earlier--they both had that just got caught look at the crime scene. Okay, so maybe this whole victim of supernatural tragedy thing put a damper on it, but Dean knew Sam had used it to his advantage before. He didn't like it when Sam did it--that was Dean's gig, damn it, but it was expected of him. Sam was better than that. And you know, it's not like Dean _wanted_ Sam kissing random girls. In fact, the thought made him feel pissed off and sick, all at once. But he wanted Sam to take his...his _charm_ somewhere else. It was a damned mousetrap. He had to share a room with the guy, and Sam didn't want him anymore, and he couldn't make a move, and it was fucking driving him nuts.

So when Sam came back to the car, Dean grit his teeth and nudged him. It sucked, sure, but he just wanted Sam happy. He didn't think this chick would make him happy, but maybe she could be good enough right now, get Sam to feel better for a while, and more importantly get Sam _out of range_.

"We could stay?" And when Sam shook his head, and made that guilty face, Dean tried to be a nice guy and not feel anything. He failed. So he just drove away.


	9. The Ambassador Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes he hates his job. Sometimes he hates his life.

They were supposed to swing straight out of town, now that the case was over. People saved--well, most of 'em--they stopped the curse from coming back, and there were only a few people dead. Pretty good day, for them.

But now there were bugs on him. They weren't on him right now, but they had been, and he couldn't get the feeling off of his skin. Sam was over there acting like nothing at all was wrong, just completely content, and Dean felt like his whole body was twitching. They had a really messy job, they did. With the graves and the guts, the sketchy motel rooms, the tromping through the woods. They came across bugs a lot. But this was a whole different level of gross. It's not like Dean was particularly fastidious. He liked to be clean, yeah, but he could get dirty if he had to. Hell, on one of Dad's drills he'd spent a solid week in the damned desert, and there was so much dust at the end of it he clogged the shower drain rinsing off. But this case was bugs pouring into a house like you see birds arch and curl in flocks. This was an _infestation_.

So Dean found them a nice hotel for once. With one of those steam showers like the obnoxious real estate lady, the dye-job redhead, was trying to sell him on. It had been a nice shower, before the bugs. Sam's eyebrows went up when he pulled the car down the long, straight shot drive up to the hotel, some classy brick place like it'd been built in the 20s or something. As the valet hustled over to the car, Sam looked at him and muttered, "Dean, what are we doing here?"

Dean glared belligerently. "I want a shower. A steam shower. That doesn't have any damned bugs. I hate bugs. I want a vacation."

"...can we afford this?"

Now Dean looked offended. "Dude. It ain't us paying for it, I thought you got that by now. It's on..." he flipped through his wallet, pulling out an American Express seemingly at random, "Jonathan Skylar's tab."

He handed the keys to the valet and leveled a cool stare at him. "My car does not get touched. In any way. You drive it to park it, you leave it alone after that. Don't move my seats, don't mess with the radio. If my car is fucked up when I get back, I will find you. Got it?" He glowered at the gawky kid until the valet nodded shakily, eyes wide. Dean smiled abruptly, like he hadn't just been threatening a teenager. "Great! We'll get our bags. Thanks."

When he headed around to the trunk, Sam had already popped it open for him, and was looking at him like he'd grown a third arm, but wasn't arguing. "Dean, how'd you know about this place?"

Dean shrugged, more a jerk of shoulders than anything else. "There was a case here a while back, a ghost in the laundry room. Dad and I took care of it, it's cool." He glanced over, and Sammy still just looked bewildered, but with that pissy edge to his face that said "don't embarrass me". Dean thought he'd grown out of that one. His mouth twisted and he just felt sad. He and his brother really didn't know each other anymore.

"What, you thought your uncultured brother didn't know how to live it up? It ain't all beer and pool. You missed a lot when you left." Muscling a duffel over his shoulder, the other in his hand, Dean headed off for the hotel doors without looking back. He heard his car rumble off behind him, and then Sammy was by his side. He tried to ignore the irony of a guy who disappeared for years and then only believes the surface being in lockstep with him, but whatever. He didn't want to talk about it. He wasn't going to talk about it. He was going to check into this swanky hotel, he was going to get his goddamned shower, get some room service and maybe a little pay-per-view, and for once some sleep in a bed with no stains or lumps. Maybe he'd even get them to clean his boots.

There was a tiny little blond at the front desk, and it was just a force of habit to turn a smirk on her. She was cute, at least. And when the charm got them a room upgrade and something called the "romance package", he was just going to ignore that she was hinting he should share it with her. He really wasn't interested. And what the hell--it got them some fancy-assed chocolate, and he magnanimously decided to let Sam have the lemonade. They didn't do champagne here, they did lemonade? The clerk--Tina--waved over an fussy-looking guy in a suit.

"Gavin, would you please take Mr. Skylar and his companion up?" She smiled at Dean and with a slight pause at "companion", flicked a glance at Sam. Eh, fuck it. He was too damned tired to argue about whether or not they were gay. It was the third time in as many days, and it's not like it was particularly uncommon, but it did get awful boring. So he just smiled mildly back at her and turned to follow Gavin. Even if he had been in the mood, not with her, not after that.

Gavin was twitching his hips a little as he walked and looking over his shoulder at...Sam. Huh. Way to go, Sam. Sam, on the other hand, was too busy being confused by Dean to notice. Kept staring at him, the floor, the elevator doors, back to Dean, all with a look on his face that said his temper was building. Dean ignored it, knew that Sam was going to start in on him, but not in public. He planned to avoid it as long as possible. The polished copper doors dinged open, and they followed Swishy Hips down a hallway with a black and gold scrolled runner, thick enough the only sound in the hallway came from their clothes.

When they got to the door of room 305, Gavin swiped the card and gestured Dean in, and then turned to Sam with a smile that matched Tina's from downstairs.

"And your room is adjoining his, sir, room 303."

Sam's lips tightened and he glared at Dean as he followed Gavin next door, and Dean got more and more irritated. He just wanted some goddamned privacy, all right? They'd leave the door open or something. He just needed some room to breathe. This stranger over here, his brother, the guy he grew up taking care of, tying his shoes and telling him bedtime stories, doesn't have the first clue who he really is, and man, it sucked. It was like running into a brick wall of Sam's stubbornness. He had one idea of how things were, how Dad was, and he spewed that shit all over the place, like with that kid Trevor, and Dean tried to call him on it, but Sam would just change the subject or ignore him. He was just tired. So damned tired.

When he walked in his room and let the door swing shut without bothering to look behind him, he didn't do more than strip off his jacket and toss his bags on the armchair before heading straight for the bathroom. If Sam wanted to come see him, he could call and Dean would open the door for him, but until then he was turning off for a while.

Dusty clothes hit the cool tiled floor, muddy boots got chucked out near the tiny entryway of the hotel room. All three shower heads cranked on, and Dean just stared at himself in the clouding steam. Shit, he really _looked_ tired; tired and old. His eyes were red, and his nose was pinched like Dad's got when he was pissed but didn't want to lose his temper. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and braced his elbows on the counter, holding his head in his hands. It was a nice stretch on his back, and he thought he might just stay there for a while. Finally, he sighed, squeezed his hands over the back of his neck and straightened up. Without looking at the shades of his father in the mirror again, he pivoted for the shower.

He'd been in there for barely a minute when a door slammed. Barely enough time to get his hair wet, and sure enough, there was Sammy. God damn it. Right on fucking time.

"Dean?"

He debated leaving him out there, but finally sighed before calling out half-heartedly, "In here." It's not like Sam couldn't hear the shower, and if he didn't say something Sam would come barging in anyway.

He heard a muffled, "What?"

 _Fuck_. "In here!", he bellowed.

The door schicked open and Dean glanced over his shoulder to see Sam standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

"What do you want, Sam?"

A long pause, some cloth rustling. Dean ignored it and reached for the shampoo. He took a sniff. It smelled like tea. His hair was going to smell like tea. Okay, then. He wasn't about to get out to get his own kit, and he knew Sam wouldn't do it for him without an argument, so tea hair it was. There was still nothing from the little brother peanut gallery, so he pooled some mossy green stuff in his hand and got to work.

He wouldn't admit it on pain of death, but he loved washing his hair. Not much hair to wash, but the scalp massage was the best part. Sam was still silent, and he started to get that grind between his shoulder blades again. Couldn't even scrub down in peace.

Finally Sam mumbled. "I'm just really confused. This isn't really your kind of place, you know? You're the guy who gets bitchy about Stanford, and then this is a hotel where Stanford people go. What's going on?" Sam sounded frustrated, and a little sad. A little disappointed.

Dean froze for a moment, hands still in his hair. _Stanford people_. That's just...

His voice came out harsh and mean. "You know what, fuck you, Sam. You are not any better than me. Just leave me the hell alone for a while, all right?"

Dean didn't have to look to see what face Sam was making, the arguments he was forming behind his eyes. He could predict all of it. Sam was standing in front of the sink, with his legs braced for confrontation, because there's no question that's what this was. His hands were shoved in his hoodie pockets, like hiding them would somehow make him look less threatening. So he wasn't expecting a quiet apology.

"Dean, I'm sorry. That was shitty. I just want to know what's going on."

Dean sighed as he reached out and wrenched the water off. _I guess shower time is over now_. He shoved the shower door open, and crossed his arms over his chest, daring Sam to comment on him standing there in all his glory. "You know what's going on, Sam? What's going on is that I want a shower. I want to pretend this whole job didn't happen. I want to not have you constantly talking shit about Dad, even after I tell you he was proud of you. I want you to give me some goddamned credit."

Sam was looking determinedly at the floor, kind of hunched over, not moving even when Dean stepped around him to grab a towel. As he passed, with a careful margin between them, Sam flinched. Dean snorted and shook his head as he moved back into the bedroom. He was not the bad guy here. He didn't hear any sneakers behind him, meaning Sam obviously stayed behind. _Probably trying to find something else to bitch about_.

Dean flopped on the bed and turned the TV to some black and white thing. Looked like aliens. Great. Settling back on the pillows, he grabbed the house phone and the room service menu, and after a quick scan, tossed it away in disgust. Nothing but bullshit "Stanford people" food.

_Perfect. Sam could have it._

He dialed the front desk, waited through the dial tone. Gavin answered, perky and obnoxious. "This is the front desk, how can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm in room 305. Can you send up a bottle of the Blue label, along with a burger and steak? Thanks." He hung up on whatever the hell it was Gavin was about to say, and turned up the volume on the TV. Finally, Sam came shuffling out, head still down, and hovered a few steps outside the door of the bathroom.

"Hey, Dean, I'm--"

Dean cut him off. He levered himself off the bed, holding his towel closed, and raised his other hand, not even looking at Sam while he moved across the room to the closet. "Let me stop you right there. I don't want to hear it. Right now, we're having some food, watching whatever the hell this is, and then we're going to sleep. Deal?" Dean shrugged on the fluffy white monogrammed bathrobe and belted it closed, dropping the towel from underneath. Sam cleared his throat behind him. Dean kept his back turned, but his shoulders stiffened again and his movements grew jerky. "I just want to relax, dude."

Still in that uncertain voice, Sam asked, "Does that mean I can stay?"

Dean closed his eyes for a moment before he turned his head to look over his shoulder. There was his little brother, giving him the sad eyes, the ones that always got him the last bowl of cereal and the extra popcorn. He felt a surge of bitter amusement, lingering resentment, and affection, and smiled crookedly.

"Yeah, Sammy. You can stay."

Sammy could always stay.


	10. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1x09, "Home"
> 
> Missouri's not quite sure what to make of the two men in front of her.

Missouri opened the door, and there they were. Sam and Dean Winchester. Sam was a typical wholesome gawky college boy, trying to make himself seem shorter. Dean had battered knuckles and a fading mouth-shaped mark behind his jaw. Sam was looking at her with soft bashful eyes, and...yep. There it was. The boy was trying to spell her. She blinked. No, he wasn't trying. The boy didn't know he was doing it. Oh, Lord. Sam had a gift, but he was going to give her a headache, she just knew it. Untrained potential running wild, a surly guard dog with a pulsing blue light of his own standing behind him, and a bitter old null Marine who knew too much and pushed too hard, all of them in her house at the same time. Good Lord.

Sam's abilities were easy to track. Standard precog. Powerful enough to learn the rest of it if he wanted, and disciplined, too. Dean's flavor was all tied into Sam. She peered a little closer while they were talking, not paying much attention at all to the conversation, trying to figure out what was going on in that boy's head. Possessiveness, love, fierce joy, relief, anger, anxiety. A curious note of shyness. And a surprising bolt of lust so strong she felt her knees soften. She got a clear image, clear enough from Dean's mind he had to have been projecting, but too fast to have been deliberate, of the two boys on her porch wrapped around each other in the front seat of the same car parked on her street.

She blinked. That was...well, that was exactly what John had said she'd find. And now the ornery bastard wanted her to deal with it. Scold his children for him. Thinking they'd respond better to a "motherly influence". She'd never had any babies, she wasn't a mother, what did she know? But no, John was a jack ass, no other way to see it.

Surprise for him. Missouri saw Dean looking at Sam, so wide open to the soft chewy center of him, all for his brother, and she looked at Sam carefully not looking at Dean, and she decided she wasn't going to get involved. Those two boys had each other more than they'd ever had their father, and if he wasn't going to pick up his phone when they called, she wasn't going to do John's work for him. They had a long road ahead--her gift wasn't the same as Sam's, but even she could see that. If they drew comfort that way, then so be it.

They weren't staying in her house, though. Not until they could put a lid on it. A lady could only handle so much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't bear writing Missouri as awful to them here as she is in the show. I sat here trying to figure out WHY she treated Dean like that, and almost didn't write anything at all because of it. I decided to come up with something else entirely. Sorry.


End file.
